


Angel in the Snow

by lost_girls



Category: BBC Sherlock, Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Tiny Angst, Tiny Sherlock, Tiny first kiss, tiny fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-09-09
Updated: 2016-09-09
Packaged: 2018-08-14 01:47:21
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,373
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7994158
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lost_girls/pseuds/lost_girls
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I’m sorry,” he whispers into John’s jumper covered chest “please forgive me. I had to. I just had to.”</p><p>John says nothing. He just starts his hand on a soothing path, up and down Sherlock’s spine.</p><p>“Please, please don’t be sorry” John growls harshly into the damp curls. “Never be sorry for this”.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Angel in the Snow

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first Sherlock fic, so be kind <3 I was just sitting here and this sad, little, angsty, fluffy thing popped into my brain so I went with it.

John watches helplessly from the landing as Sherlock scrambles down the stairs. All of the otherworldly grace John associates with the man vanishes as he stumbles over his own feet. In his haste, the soles of the detectives shoes slide from under him. The wiry man skids down two, three steps at a time, long fingers scratching at the bannister to avoid falling. He hardly takes the effort to correct his footing before he is flying once again, disappearing out the door behind a dark swath of wool. To John, it’s as if he is instantly swallowed by the weather outside, disappearing immediately into the icy storm raging outside of 221b.

The doctor starts, as if waking from a dream or a trance, and pushes through the fog that has been holding him back. He follows quickly and quietly in his flatmates footsteps, hoping to catch him in time to make him stay. Surely he is able to come up with a few words, a plea that would convince Sherlock to return to the flat. Even if only to finish their conversation, or at the very least, leave more preparedly.

However, when John reaches the door, all he can see is the fading lights of the cab that is currently moving away from Baker Street. The tyres make hardly any noise in the snow, nothing more than a muted crunch. In fact, the whole street is asleep. No traffic, no pedestrians, just cars and postboxes and bicycles blanketed in white.

“So that’s that”. John murmurs into the frigid wind. He has been exposed for only moments, but the stiffness in his clenching fists, the iciness in the tips of his fingers pull him inside to shut the door with a quiet ‘click’.

As John trudges back up to the flat, he feels the tension of the last hour leave his shoulders and his hands loosen, dropping to his sides. All he is left with now is weariness. Weariness, and a darker, less examined tightness that has settled deep in his chest. Regret? The overwhelming need to have acted faster? Perhaps if he had spoken more clearly?

The dying embers aren’t providing much warmth in the flat, but John sinks down deep into Sherlock’s chair and tries to be calmed by the play of light. The hearth itself is aglow, the heat radiating only enough to touch John’s face. The rest of the room is cast in deep shadow, and he thinks that in this moment the space has never seemed quieter, more lonely. As his breaths finely steady, and his body begins to slacken, he allows himself to be lost in the glow.

 

_John is bent over, rummaging through the refrigerator to find anything salvageable. He finally decides on the takeaway Thai that has been mercifully stored furthest away from the two hands sitting uncovered, of course, in a pie dish. There was a small jam jar full of teeth quite close to the Lad Na, but the jar was sealed, at least, and that was good enough._

_As he shuts the door and turns to begin the processes of heating up his leftovers, John is stopped in his tracks. Sherlock is standing in the doorway to the kitchen. His blue dressing gown is tied tightly around his body, and thick wool socks John has never seen before sag low by his ankles._

  
_Sherlock’s hair is wild as if he’d been running his fingers through the dark curls relentlessly. As John takes in his whole face, he finds himself dazedly setting his food on the table. The detective's eyes are wide and glassy, darting between John’s face, the window, and Sherlock’s own feet. Mouth slack and panting for breath, hitching on every third or fourth inhale. Nose red and runny as if he had been in the cold. His cheeks are flushed and his knuckles are bone white where the fingers of one hand have entwined with the other._

_John takes a step towards his flatmate. He reaches a hand towards his shoulder, and lets it fall there. This is the only comfort he can seem to muster when being so caught off guard._

_He leans his head forward, squinting, as if this will allow him to know what has Sherlock so...out of character. When their eyes lock, Sherlock seems to become even more agitated and begins to chew savagely on his lower lip._

_“Sherlock,” John hisses, as he moves his hand from his friend’s shoulder, to rest at the back of his neck. ‘Try to ground him’ he thinks ‘bring him back here’ “Sherlock, what’s happened? Tell me. Please”?_

_Sherlock’s breath stutters as he drags his watery gaze back up to meet John’s. John think’s he has never seen his friend more naked. So vulnerable and uncertain. The thought that something terrible and irreversible has happened enters John’s mind, and he begins to panic._

_Suddenly, Sherlock’s actions are mimicking his own. A large, clammy hand grips tightly at the back of his neck. Shaking fingers come to rest, whisper soft, over John’s shoulder._

_John jumps when the hand at the back of his neck tightens, blunt fingernails biting into his skin._

_“I’m sorry, John” Sherlock whispers “I’m so sorry”. And with that confession, Sherlock crashes his lips against John, the tiniest whimper escaping his mouth. John feels the hands on his neck and shoulder flex and relax, then flex again. Sherlock pulls aways slightly, and a sob, all hot air and moist breath, ghosts over John’s lips._

_Startled, John braces his hands against Sherlock’s heaving chest. He pushes away, just slightly, so he can look into this man’s face. The man that resurrected him from whatever ill fate he was sure to succumb to. The man who brought fire and purpose and happiness into his life. He drinks in Sherlock’s uncertain gaze and can think of nothing to say._

_“What was that,now”? He finally whispers, trying desperately to grasp at anything resembling their normal banter._

_Sherlock immediately retreats, and John can see him collapse. He watches Sherlock fold in on himself, erecting the walls that John had foolishly thought weren’t needed when it came to him. Them._

  
_And that is when the room turns to chaos. Sherlock turns away abruptly and heads towards the door. Slinging his coat over his arm, he frantically toes on his dress shoes, only bothering with putting his coat on after he is already out the door._

_John springs into action. “Are you daft?” he yells as he follows after his flatmate._

_“There is no way you’re going out there in nothing but your coat and a dressing gown! If you want to leave, leave but at least take…”_

_The door to the flat slams, and John finds himself rushing after Sherlock and then…_

John’s eyes snap open abruptly. Disoriented from awaking so quickly, his eyes scan the room. The fire has died completely, and it takes a moment for his eyes to adjust.

It is then that he sees Sherlock, curled up at the base of his own chair, the one John is currently occupying. His hair shines with melted snow and there are tracks on his face that could be dried tears. His long, white fingers cling desperately to John’s trouser legs, even in sleep.

Sherlock stirs when John leans forward to scoop his flatmate up. Cupping his hands under Sherlock’s armpits, he drags him into his lap and settles the detective's cold face into the crook of his neck.

Sherlock tries his best to sit up, to rest his hands against John’s shoulders and push away from the embrace, but he is exhausted. He is exhausted from running and hiding and lying, and so he collapses into the doctors embrace. There is no fight left in him.

“I’m sorry,” he whispers into John’s jumper covered chest “please forgive me. I had to. I just had to.”

John says nothing. He just starts his hand on a soothing path, up and down Sherlock’s spine.

“Please, please don’t be sorry” John growls harshly into the damp curls. “Never be sorry for this”.

And with that, he grasps Sherlock’s chin and quickly presses their lips together.

“Never be sorry for what you have given me”.

**Author's Note:**

> So this is not beta'd or britpicked so I'm sorry if this is terrible. Since this is my first, please let me know if you would want to help me with further works <3 <3 <3


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